


Do I care so bad, is your heart so sore?

by ALzzza



Series: Heart of the Home [5]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Family Feels, For half a second, Gen, Good Brother Jason Todd, Hurt Tim Drake, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide Idealization, Jason Todd is Worried, Sexual Harassment, Tim Drake Needs a Hug, Tim Drake-centric, Underage Drinking, What-If, again there's no actually rape/non-con, im tagging it cause that's where im going, it's more Jason's line of thought and nothing explicit, not specific, there isn't any mention of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-05-21
Packaged: 2020-03-08 21:02:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18902599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ALzzza/pseuds/ALzzza
Summary: “Dick! Can you come pick me up?”Tim doesn’t finish his first word before Jason notices something’s wrong. He’s slurring—hears the beat of a club in the background, and Jason feels concern bleed in because Tim is very clearly drunk.Or, Jason Comes Back To Gotham And Is Confronted With A Tim That Isn’t As Okay As Everyone Seems To Think





	Do I care so bad, is your heart so sore?

**Author's Note:**

> I was feeling the angst so of course I'm here to torture our favorite Baby Bird.
> 
> Also! I swear Dick and co weren’t being bad family members, the whole point of this fic is that stuff like this can creep in so slowly—and often people close don’t notice the change because it’s so gradual. Jason can see the shock difference because he’s been away from Gotham—and Tim—for weeks.
> 
> TW: Implied Depression, Implied Suicide Idealization (read tags, PLEASE STOP IF THIS IS TRIGGERING <3)

Jason walks into the Manor’s kitchen Friday morning after three weeks away with Roy and Lian; they’d camped out in Star City for the time being because _fuck Queen_ basically. _And_ that’s where Dinah is at the moment; Lian _loves_ Dinah, Roy loves Dinah. Hell, _Jason_ loves Dinah—she’s fuckin’ _kick_ _ass_. He’d been helping Arsenal out with a couple cases—and y’know, _babysitting_.

Kori was nowhere to be seen, busy off hero-ing with one of her many superhero friends. Jason’s half certain she’s hanging with the Teen Titans again, but she’s still calling him and Roy every other week so Jason’s not going to worry about it.

Usually when Jason gets back from _wherever_ he’d skipped out on Gotham for, he doesn’t so much as spare a curtesy glance B’s way—but today? He doesn’t much feel like cooking. Not when he can just break into the Manor and raid their fridge for Alfred’s leftovers. It has less to do with Bruce living there and more to do with Jason’s stomach, but he figures he might as well check in. Make sure no one’s dead and resurrected—or _adopted_. At this point Jason’s not even sure which ones more likely, and doesn’t that say a lot about his family?

So, he walks into the Manor’s kitchen Friday morning to find Tim alone, slumped across the table—not all together _un_ usual, considering how many times the kid stays up days on end doing who knows what. Jason is kind of surprised he’s the only one up yet, though.

He peers at Tim— _up_ being used _very_ loosely. He spares him a couple pokes in the side, making him stir—before moving into the kitchen. “Want some coffee, Replacement?” He asks already grabbing the first Tupperware container he can see. Peels the lid off to peer at its content—eggplant parmesan. Shrugs, _good enough_. Shoves it in the microwave, waits for it to buzz to life before looking back at Tim.

He’s still slumped over the table, eyes closed. But he’s nodding along—so Jason takes that for the enthusiastic yes it very clearly _is_ and starts up the coffee machine.

Walks to the table a couple minutes later, steaming coffee and eggplant parmesan in hand. Places the mug in front of Tim before poking him in the side a couple more times, says around his mouthful of food, “Th’re you go, T’mmy.”

As if on cue Tim looks up, hands wrapping around the coffee cup before dragging it towards him, steam rising into his face, eyes still half shut. Jason pauses to watch, concern pulling at his brow because Tim looks absolutely fucking _wrecked_.

Not the _I haven’t slept in three days_ kind of wrecked he wears like his favourite jacket. No, _this_. This is the _I haven’t gotten a good night sleep in years_ kind of wrecked Jason knows too much about. It doesn’t make a lot of sense considering Jason’s only been gone _three weeks_.

There’s shuffling behind him then Dick’s voice, “Hey, you’re back.” He sounds cheerful as ever and sure enough, Jason turns to find him smiling hugely at him. He must see something on Jason’s face because he teases, still smiling, “ _Aww_ are you worried about _Timmy_ , Jay?” He walks over, smoothing Tim’s hair back as he goes, unconcerned as he makes his way into the kitchen as well. “Don’t worry,” He continues, “Tim’s just been working himself a little hard. You know how he is.”

 _Yeah_ , Jason frowns doubtfully down at his food, _he does_.

“Want some food Timmy?” Jason asks getting up, brings his leftovers with him. Continues to eat as he makes his way to the kitchen again. Tim doesn’t answer beyond a shrug, hands wrapped securely around his coffee cup, half slumped onto the table.

Jason doesn’t overly _care_ if he wants food or not—he’s getting some anyway. Rummages through the fridge even as Dick grabs a bowl of cereal behind him. Finds a smaller serving of vegetable soup—shrugs, that’ll do. Besides, limiting certain food groups to certain times is for _wimps_.

He grabs a bowl, pours the soup into it before microwaving that as well. Shovels half his _own_ food into his mouth by the time the timer goes off. Grabs the bowl gingerly with a tea towel—it’s _hot_ —and makes his way to the table again. Places it down with a large clank, liquid swimming up the sides from all the movement.

“Eat.” He states, watching Tim with guarded eyes as he collapses back into his own chair. Tim barely glances up, still slouched on the table but seems to know it’s not worth the disagreement—he’d lost the battle of them feeding him a _long_ time ago. He drags himself into a more upright position like it costs all the energy he _has_. Glares down at the bowl of soup, vegetables floating around languidly, like it’s offended him on the greatest level.

Jason relaxes back sloppily into his chair, casually eating his food. Eyes never lingering on Tim too long, but Dick clearly notices—watching Jason with plain amusement, eyes teasing. Doesn’t pay much attention to Tim as he finally starts to eat his food after too-long moments, movements a little mechanical as he brings the spoon to his mouth then back to the bowl and again and _again_.

He eats the food no problem, and if Jason wasn’t watching for the slightest inconsistency, he might not have noticed the minute hesitation before Tim’s spoon made it to his mouth; the near-invisible grimace in his actions when he swallows—like he’s forcing himself to down every mouthful.

Jason scans him subtly—he doesn’t _look_ like he’s lost any weight, but that doesn’t mean much when he’d basically been a stick _before_. He knows there’s no way he’s eating less than one meal a day at the very least, everyone’s always dragging him away for food. He usually forgets. That’s not the problem, the problem is—well, usually he just _forgets_.

Right now? He looks like he doesn’t want to touch food _ever again_.

That’s a bit of a problem.

Jason looks to Dick again, still eating—there’s no way Tim was injured, Dick would’ve told him. And altogether, Dick doesn’t look like anything’s out of place.

He glances at Tim again—looks back at his empty Tupperware container; frowns.

Tim’s probably just getting sick, or something.

He pushes his concerns away—after all, if _Dickhead_ says it’s fine, it probably _is_. Frowns a little deeper down at the table.

 _It’s fine_.

* * *

It’s a couple days later that his phone rings. He’s in the middle of cleaning his guns, coming down from a night on patrol. He glances up not overly worried, mostly just planning to let it go to voice mail but sees the Caller ID.

Generally, the Bats don’t call Jason— _especially_ this late at night, unless they need help with a case or the world’s about to end. He lets it ring one more time before dragging himself up with a sigh. Walking over to grab his phone. He can’t even remember if _Tim_ has ever called Jason before. Usually, he just hijacks his comm line.

Jason answers the phone easily, holding it to his ear with on hand—doesn’t even get a greeting out before Tim’s voice is there. Slurring loudly, the low beat of a club alive in the background, “ _Dick_ —I need you to pick me up.”

It doesn’t take one word before it becomes apparent that Tim is very, _very_ drunk.

“Tim, wha—” He starts to ask but doesn’t finish—concern bleeding through his gut, he continues instead voice firm, “ _Where are you_?”

“Dunno, it’s loud though.” He giggles into the speaker like that’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. The concern in Jason’s gut deepens, worry quickly creeping in.

“Tim. Stay on the phone—I need you to try and remember where you are.”

“Jason?” Tim slurs blearily, voice quieter in question—apparently just now noticing it isn’t his oldest brother on the end of the line. _No_ , Jason thinks bitterly, _just him_.

“Yeah, buddy.” Jason says, soft but firm, “I’m gonna pick you up; can you remember where you are for me?”

“Uhhh—I don’ know,” Tim says again and Jason tries to stifle the frustration that builds—mind working a million miles an hour, he grabs the keys to his car already stepping into the drivers seat—he’d strip Gotham head to toe if that’s what it took to find him—when Tim speaks again, “I _think_ , I might be in Sim-tim? Samp-tim?” He tries to pronounce but that’s all Jason needs; Symptom, a club in downtown Gotham. Jason doesn’t know why Tim would be anywhere _near_ there—but it doesn’t matter. He’s speeding towards it before he can think, phone still stuck to his ear.

“Why am I calling Jay?” Tim mumbles quietly on the other end, “I was meant to be calling Dick...” He trails off worryingly on the other end, phone shuffling around—and Jason feels a spike of fear, hopes to god he doesn’t hang up.

“Tim! _Tim_. I need you to stay on the line, okay? I’m coming to get you—just, _stay on the line_.” He repeats, voice a little high. Eyes still firmly on the road, he listens desperately as the shuffling stops.

“Mm _hmm_ , ‘kay.” But Jason can’t bring himself to relax, doesn’t think he’ll relax until Tim’s firmly within reach.

“Jay...?” Tim slurs quietly after a while.

When he doesn’t continue Jason prompts, only half listening as he tries to find a carpark, “Yeah Timmy?”

He hesitates just long enough to have Jason worrying again, his soft erratic breathing the only thing reassuring Jason he’s still there. Then he’s whispering—and Jason can barely hear it over the bass in the background, but he does. “I’m _tired_.”

And it’s the way he says it that has a lump jumping to Jason’s throat. Another quick spike of fear travelling up his spine, curling up his insides, _because_ he’s definitely not talking about the type of tired that comes with 3am nightlife— _and that’s all kinds of_ _terrifying_.

“Okay buddy.” He agrees lightly, hands gripping the stirring wheel tightly as he pulls into a park _finally_. “I’m nearly there, okay? Then we can go home.” He says gently, voice tight—because _what else is he meant to say_? He doesn’t know what he’s meant to _say_.

“Hmmm...” Tim hums on the other end and Jason slams his car door shut loudly, running across the street.

“Tim. Stay where you are, okay?” The club was fairly small—not that many people scattered around this late on a Tuesday night. “I’m going to find you, okay? _Stay where you are_.” Jason doesn’t wait for Tim’s confirming hum; eyes darting around the crowd, stomach churning, he pushes his way through the crowd not caring when he bumps into a few late-night stragglers. Starts to panic when he can’t see Tim; hand gripping his phone tight enough to break—what if he’s in the wrong _place_? What if Tim gave him the _wrong_ address? _What if Tim’s not **here**_ —

But _there_ ; in a corner booth—right at the back, there’s Tim. Slumped forward on the table, head buried in the crook of his elbow like he’d been leaning on his hand at some point before it gave out. Phone still dutifully tucked next to his ear—and the relief is _blinding_. Jason’s there in seconds, phone shoved hastily in his pocket. He kneels, looking at Tim—feels a hot spike of anger because he looks _so young_ , he’s not even _legal_ yet—but it fades away just as fast. Tim’s blurry eyes meet his and Jason swallows the sudden thickness in his throat.

“Jas’n?”

“Hey there Tim-Tam,” He greets softly, “Let’s get you up, okay?” He takes his shoulders gently, lifting his weight. Tim stumbles forward but Jason catches him easily—hand slipping around his waist to steady him as his feet drag lazily against the floor. They stand up fully, Tim tucked into Jay’s side—leaning against him heavily. They’re walking when Jason mumbles, “Time to go home.”

They almost make it to the car too.

Most of the time Jason doesn’t have to worry about people picking a fight—usually that’s _him_. What with his size and the fact he’s built like a not so small brick, he rarely gets a second glance. He definitely doesn’t have to worry about old creeps harassing him like Tim apparently does and it makes something in him twist.

The guy walks up from ahead of them, either too drunk or too stupid to stay away when Jason nails a murderous glare at him. He tries to crowd closer, eyeing Tim with a leer Jason wants to tear off his face.

“Well hullo sweetheart.” The guy croons, swaying slightly on his feet.

Jason doesn’t pause shifting in front of Tim, anger building under his skin as he snarls, “Fuck off, asshole.” The universe really doesn’t give them a break, does it?

He tries to take another step forward, but the guy doesn’t move, just keeps ogling up and down at Tim. “Don’t be _sour_. Pretty boy like youse fair game. Bet you’d look great with your lips ‘round my—” He doesn’t get another word in because Jason’s decking him so hard it sends him sprawling across the ground. He feels like walking back to kick him a couple times, just to make _sure_ he _stays down_ but can’t—looks to Tim where he’s leaning on him, eyes half-lidded and keeps walking.

There are more important things.

They get to the car and Jason feels thankful he had the forethought to bring it instead of his motorbike. Doesn’t think Tim would be able to hold on _at all_ , feels glad a long night didn’t have to get any longer because Jason had to call someone else to pick them up.

He watches as Tim sways on his feet, legs uncoordinated and sloppy as he tries to get in the car; Jason loses hope for that plan after attempt number three. Picks Tim up off his feet easily, head resting on Jay’s chest. Maneuvers Tim into the car seat carefully, seatbelt clicking with a snap. Tries to stamp out the unease that tickles up his spin—because Tim can barely _walk_ , if he hadn’t been there that _asshole might of_ —

He doesn’t want to think about it. Gets in the driver’s side, already pulling away from the curve before he looks to Tim again. Feels a little sick even as he pushes the thoughts away—because Tim’s fully slumped against the door, head resting on the window—bumping lightly every time Jason hits a rough bit of road. His hands tighten on the steering wheel and he looks back at the street ahead, tries not to think about _anything_.

Tim must have felt his eyes on him though because he looks over—eyelids drooping even as he slurs, “Thanks, Jay.”

And Jason doesn’t look away from the dimly lit Gotham streets. Hopes desperately somewhere in his chest Tim doesn’t remember this in the morning—doesn’t remember any of it. Wishes all his pain away and hopes it’s gone by morning.

It doesn’t feel like nearly enough.

He hears the change in Tim’s breathing, listens carefully as it evens out. Listens to the faint breathes that sound like thunder cracks in the empty car, on the empty road at 4 am. Jason looks straight out the windscreen, eyes fixed on the road and murmurs, “Sure thing, Timmy. Sure thing.”

**Author's Note:**

> I am definitely turning this into a separate series (I don't want to fill Heart of the Home with angst lol) and I have written the next two fics already, just need final editing and I'll post! Tell me what you think! Comments and kudos always welcome! Plus, they motivate me and y'know, my editing. ;)


End file.
